The Dance of the Dead
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In the darkness of a summer night,
Are the shadows of crosses row after row,
Muted gray in the moonlight.
Soft and surreal from a distant shore,
The faint chords of Jimi Hendrix
Plays for the crowd evermore.
Listen closely, and there will appear,
The rich baritone of Jim Morrison’s poetry
To say there’s been a slaughter here.
One by one, the Vietnam soldiers rise
Young men cheated of a summer of love
In a macabre Woodstock that never dies
Psychedelic phantoms between the rows
Spawned by the soul of Janis Joplin,
With hollow laughter that comes and goes
Like floodlights with a dimming glow,
The moon descends upon the black horizon,
To tell the ranks its time to go.
Until the moon shall rise anew,
To repose beneath wilted flowers,
For a summer of love they never knew.